Doctor Patient Cofidentiality
by CampionSayn
Summary: Winema has been going through so much stress lately and before she has a breakdown at a conference, she goes to see the only doctor she knows and can threaten into silence. May be rated 'R' in later chapters. TW/PG later down the line.
1. Proposition

Title: Doctor—Patient Confidentiality.  
Disclaimer: I don't own Legion, never will. I make no money from writing this.  
Summary: Winema has been going through so much stress lately and before she has a breakdown at a conference, she goes to see the only doctor she knows and can threaten into silence. In connection to _Big Momma and Careless Father_, but longer and in chaptered segments.

I have no idea why I'm writing this, but perhaps it's because nobody writes for either the elder Londo or elder Wazzo. It annoys me so much that I'm actually writing a chapter fic, and I hate writing those. Hate.

Any suggestions for venting on Winema's part would be excellent. Not just about Londo, or work, though. Like sex and aging. You know, all the good stuff.

* * *

**Proposition:**

3 a.m. in the morning and somehow, by some cosmic joke, Mar Londo woke up from his usual sleeping area—the couch—to someone knocking on his door. In a friendly manner. A steady, calming and repetitive flurry of knocks that freaked him out so badly he grabbed the laser gun he kept under his pillow before opening the mini-window in the door. And then he did a double take.

Eyes like a doe's stared in a seemingly pleasant way back at him and blue/black lips smiled deceivingly when his own eyes, crusty and drowsy from sleep, lit up with recognition. Oh, Sprock, what was this shrieking banshee doing back here?

"Hello, Dr. Londo," Winema Wazzo greeted as she lightly jiggled the handle to the door, "May I come in?"

"It's three in the morning," the man growled, obliging anyway in opening the door and sneering at the woman as she padded into the room and over to the couch, still warm from his own body heat, "Why the hell are you here?"

Winema raised a brow at Londo. Last time she made a surprise visit he was…well, better clothed for one thing and not wielding a gun hunched over like he was going to die for another. His lab coat was draped atop one of the kitchen chairs and his shoes were thrown into two separate corners of the place. He presently looked like an average guy in a wrinkled button-down white shirt and equally wrinkled black pants. Oh, and his glasses were still where his face had been; atop the throw pillow not an arms' length from where the President sat.

"No need to be snippy," she replied lightly, "I just came to offer you a proposition."

Unable to resist, his reply was quick, sharp and nasty, "Proposition? What are you, a hooker?"

"No, Doctor. As I said, I want to offer you a proposition, but it's not sexual. Not at all—where are you going?"

The doctor allowed her to remain unanswered as he stumbled into the kitchen, pulled the semi-fresh, ultimately disgusting coffee from its cradle in the coffee maker and downed three whole gulps right from the glass pot. It burned his tongue and his taste buds would swell in exactly five minutes, but it would keep him from passing out like a narcoleptic or an idiot in front of this woman. The fact that she gave him a very disturbed look was bonus as he turned around towards the cupboards and pulled out two mugs. One for him for the sake of salvaging his dignity from this moment in time and one for the woman herself.

He was cranky, but he was not completely horrible.

Grabbing both mugs and, somehow, the coffee pot itself, he stalked back over and sat on the other couch. The glass objects sort of clanged on the table and he glared half-heartedly at her to get to the point before he went back to the kitchen, picked up his gun again and shot her.

"Er, as I was saying," Winema coughed, "I sort of need your help with something. It's personal and it can't get out and you will be paid for every hour that you do the deed for me."

"And the deed you speak of would be…?"

The President picked up the mug offered to her and took a sip before answering, a slight blush that he didn't notice at all creeping up her neckline and to her cheeks, "I…need you to be my therapist."

Quickly and with no warning, Londo snorted into his coffee, choking on it a little and then gave her a look that was both mocking and amused at the same time, "I'll assume you already know this, Madame President, but I'll say it anyway: I'm not that kind of doctor. I have never been that kind of doctor and I actually mock those kinds of doctors. If it's not pure science and based mostly off of guess work, I don't believe it's a profession."

"Yes, I actually read that in one of the essays you wrote in school," she nodded, "But I don't actually want you to analyze me. I just want you to listen to me vent about various things in my life and add in your two cents when you'd like."

"Oh, I get it. It's like confession, but with someone you can threaten into silence."

"In a manner, yes. That's exactly what it is. Though, I'm not an unfair person. You will of course get paid."

The grey haired man leaned back into the couch and groaned pathetically, sore muscles clenching and unclenching along his back when they came into contact with the hidden coils in the couch. They seemed to stick into him and make this whole thing harder than it had to be, making him all the less pleasant to be around.

"And how much will I be getting paid?"

"Two-hundred credits per visit. Two-fifty if you provide meaningful advice and don't just bitch at me for taking up your time."

His neck allowed his head to flop back upon the sofa as he let out a little growl. He knew that she would come back no matter what and spill her guts no matter what he did to piss her off on her way in or out. Should he turn down the offer to be at the very least paid for having to listen and not even react?

No. Even in his sleep deprived state of mind, he knew that turning down this one offer of money for doing what was basically a monkey's job would be…stupid. He had an entire thesaurus in his mind for what else he could be called if he turned this down, but he just wanted to get her out so he could go back to…the couch she was on.

"If I say yes, will you come back at a decent hour some other time?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Then yes," he said rather nonchalantly, kicking his legs up on the coffee table as his upper body started easing into the feel of the couch he was on, toes wiggling at the woman. He missed the look of astonishment on her features, but relished in the sound of her getting up and heading for the door.

He heard her stop just at the exit and turn around, but ignored those irritating factors in favor of her next words.

"Expect to see me within the next week when you're more lucid and wearing appropriate clothes."

His hand, which had been settled atop his knee, trying not to fall off, gave her a little wave. It was short and only two of his fingers wiggled when he had commanded all of them to do so, but she got the message.

He passed back into blissful unconsciousness at the sounds of her stifling a giggle and his door opening and closing with a discreet click.


	2. Double or Nothing

Disclaimer: I still don't own Legion of Super Heroes, nor do I make any profit from this.

First round of actual "therapy" coming up this time.

* * *

**Double or Nothing-:-**

Five days, near down to the minute that the President had left his base at the ungodly hour in the morning, she was back again, though this time in the evening. And he was actually working under the one of the computer consoles, wires ripped out and strewn around near his feet while his back was lying flat to the ground atop a towel, in an older shirt and crappy pants that, had they been from another time period would be referred to as jeans, but were actually called something else nowadays. Denim, that was what he recalled the sales-girl saying they were.

His door opened with a slam into his wall and his head hit the console's inside roof, a resounding and painful throb going through his entire head. The screwdriver he had been using slid out of the screw it was working on and scraped along more metal, hurting his ears as well.

"You don't need to get up, it's just me," the President's voice spoke from his living room, the sounds of her little heels clicking and then thumping as she sat on his couch, back on one end, facing him, and her feet settling onto the other side. He growled at her voice and shimmied out of the console's innards to glare at the woman for disturbing his work.

Grabbing the little rag he kept next to him for this type of work, he wiped a smear of oil from his face and the rest off his hands while she continued to look at him, calmly and effectively grabbing his attention enough to look at her and notice…

She was wearing something different from the last two times she came to Rawl. Instead of looking like a confident, ever thinking ahead President, she looked like an average—if not slightly attractive—woman, who was more suited to being a college professor. Simple black trouser pants, a white twinset shirt, black boots that shouldn't have worked on a woman like her, and yet did, and her hair down, settled like a black silk curtain around her like one of the old, 21st century fashion models.

If he were a normal human being he might find her attractive, and on some subconscious level that was stationed and merged with his sexdrive, he _did_, but right now she was just the woman sitting on his couch for a therapy session he didn't want to listen or assist in.

He threw his rag back into the console and leaned against it, still glaring at her, "This is for your benefit, but I'm just going to lay down some ground rules, okay?"

She nodded, fingers fiddling with a lock of her own hair as he continued.

"I reserve the right to call you an idiot up to three times a session, if you try and hit me, I reserve the right to hit back, if I'm working on something and you come in, I will continue to do so even if it involves very loud power tools that drown you out and if I make food or drink I won't always offer you any. Understand?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Okay," he sighed, without any warning ducking back into the console and back to his work, but waved a hand out of the hole at her, like swatting away a fly, "Speak your tiny little mind."

"Alright," Winema replied, ready and comfortable in the cushiness of the sofa as she just started off on the things that had been bothering her as of late, "I've been thinking about getting back into the sex thing again after taking a sabbatical of about twice as long as my term in office."

Londo paused his hand from picking up the power tool he was going for and settled back into working at the wires he had intended on doing later. He supposed he could listen to this part, at least. He didn't get any form of entertainment on this planet, aside from some music radio that bounced around five different planets nearer him, and this could be something worth revisiting and mocking her with should she ever really annoy him. Well, annoy him even more, anyway.

"It's not like I even really want to see if I'm any good at it, it's just that I've spent so much time as the President, as a mother even, that I'm starting to worry that I've regained my virginity and the next guy I'm with will be a total freak about it."

"You haven't had sex in twenty years?"

"Oh, so you're listening?" she smiled, raising her arms and stretching them out behind her head.

He growls and the sound echoes around the chamber a moment, but she continues, a little pleased that he was paying attention despite setting herself up for expecting him to just tune her out. It was pleasing, she supposed, to be listened to when it wasn't of base importance to the United Planets. Like she was a real, normal person.

"No. I had sex once when Tinya was two, but, um, it was during a night of drunkenness and I don't actually remember his name…or what he looked like…or if it was even a he…"

Londo's fingers twined the wires together and he slid the red plastic or blue plastic across the connection. He was smiling in that snide way he sometimes did at the misfortune of others, but refrained from laughing.

"Why Madame President, you've had quite a wild side."

"Years ago, and you're not exactly one to judge, are you?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Experimenting on your own son, hiding out on a planet a sane person would never inhabit willingly, not to mention you're a man."

Ignoring the first two points, he grabbed for the last and wiggled out of the cavern again. One brow was raised at her and he took to the kitchen to wash his hands in the sink, investing in this session despite himself. The console could wait.

"I'm a man, so what?"

"So, according to statistics, whatever number of men women have slept with, women men have slept with are two to three times more."

Londo turned on the faucet, only a little grease and oil wiping onto it like paint as the water flowed out in spurts like a water pistol in the hands of a teenager used to hunt after another in the heat of summer. The debris from his hands came off easily and slid through the water drops and into the sink as he turned his head slightly to at least try and look at her as he spoke.

"Really? Would you care to put that theory to the test?"

Her eyes narrowed mischievously at the ceiling, but she took the bait, "How's that, Doctor?"

"How many men have you slept with?"

"Excuse me?" Winema tittered, leaning up with her elbows as he came around the couch and took a seat in the one nearer the door. He looked amused as he crossed his legs and one of his arms rested on the armrest. She had never been asked such a question in her life and it was amusing by some degree to be asked such a private thing by the one guy who she thought would never partake in this in a billion years.

"I'll tell you my number if you tell me yours."

"…Okay," Winema replied, inquisitive about him now, in spite of herself, "In my life, I've had sexual relations with ten different men."

"That's all?"

"Yes, why? How many people have you slept with?"

"Define people," Londo enquires somewhat secretively, his glasses sliding down his nose as his head is angled at her in a way that reminds her of a snake that's not poisonous, but menacing in its own way. It almost sort of frightens her, but she outlined her enquiry anyway, much too drawn into this.

"Men, women, animals, plants-if you're like that."

"I'm tri-sexual, my dear Wazzo," he explains, enjoying her eyes as they widen a little at the statement, "I'll try anything once, but I suppose in the last twenty-some years I have limited myself to just males and females. But, to answer the base question, I have slept with thirty-seven people to date."

The creepiness from this statement, said so matter of fact that it couldn't be a lie, slid in and then out of her rather quickly and she sat up from her spot, success on her face.

"Hah! I was right! Men are pigs! You're a pig."

"Well, not as of late," he defended, "I myself haven't slept with anyone in years."

"Uh-huh," Winema smiled, twirling a piece of her hair again, "So, what do you think I should do about my situation?"

His reply is simple and not unexpected, but still it irritated her tremendously, "I haven't the slightest idea."

She seems disappointed by his words, but doesn't say anything for a little while. She just stares at him, thinking things he would never dream to guess at, and finally, she moved from her spot on the couch and to a standing position.

Once righted up, her hand dug into one of her pockets and she pulled out a cred card, clasped daintily between two fingers and held it out to him, unspeaking.

When he did not move quickly to grab the card, she simply dropped it onto the table and she went for the door, not turning as she spoke, quiet, "I'll be back again soon. Perhaps in the next few days."

With the words spoken, she left for her ship, leaving him alone in his place upon the sofa, contemplating the strange woman.


	3. Water Boot

Disclaimer: I don't own Legion. I make no money off of this.

* * *

**Water Boot-:-**

The diplomats are leaving the room and Winema finds that she had fallen into a daze and she hadn't heard a thing.

She was too busy thinking about everything else. The hideous tie on Rimbor's representative that looks like the tongue of some dead animal, long and red and disgusting had caught her attention first off, followed swiftly by the way the newest female representative from Zarok is staring at the commander of Takron-Galtos in a sort of curious and flirtatious way, and then the whole meeting is a blur and they're all leaving and her lead bodyguard is asking where their next stop is for the day.

This is the third time in as many days that this has happened. Her pausing in time only for it to come hurtling back to the present, leaving her confused and having to go to the room where these meetings were recorded for protection reasons and ask for a copy to look over for later. The man who copied the files for her was getting annoyed and she didn't want to go through this again.

There was just too much on her mind.

"Get my suitcase from the hotel room," Winema tells her guard, hard as brass and twice as cold as she moves out of her chair and doesn't look at the man, "We're going to Rawl."

"Again?" the Guard inquires dubiously, only again to be not acknowledged as she leaves the room.

* * *

The trip to the tropic planet is quiet and cramped because the cruiser she usually uses is in the shop for repairs to one of the wings. She and her bodyguards were forced to use a more compact transporter and when she gets out of the stupid thing, in her simple white dress that looked like it should be worn along some shore of the sea, she stretches painfully and orders the guards to stay outside.

She doesn't bother knocking. She simply opens the door and calls out a, "Hello," only to find that the places Londo usually is when she comes (the kitchen, the couch, under the computer console) are unoccupied.

There is a sound vibrating through the place, like rain on a tin roof.

Her lips quirk up and she moves around the place, following the sound, her own steps reverberating through the halls and mixing with the rain noise. It's melodic and serene and calming, an old fashioned slow dance she used to practice with Tinya when she was small, and she keeps her pace until her tall figure stills at a door with steam flowing out of the cracks.

She is tempted, very much so, to bang the door open and scare the crap out of the doctor, but she won't. She's not feeling particularly malicious today. She'll be kind in as much a way as she can around this man she detests and finds interesting at the same instance.

Winema's hand touches the wood three times, her knuckles thin and hard against the somewhat pliant barrier. A hollow sound is a consequence after the knocking in a way that she likes, but also knows that in this point of time, Londo will not like and she repeats the motion again. This time she gets an answer.

"I just got in here," his voice calls out over dripping water, "Come inside or wait an hour."

"Coming in," she replies.

The door opens and she is met by the sight of his bathroom and all it features. So much more feminine than it should have been, but then she recalled, he had admitted to being more or less bisexual. He had some fashion sense, near on par with her own. If that was anything to go by.

It is clean, which is far beyond what she would expect from a mad scientist. Not a trace of mold or mildew anywhere in the nice, wide and long room. The only blemishes are his clothes in a disheveled pile on the floor, smelling of his experiments, most involving oil like the last time, and his boots knocked onto their sides in each corner not inhabited by the shower, sink or toilet. Still, aside from that little distraction, the tiles are a deep grey, the sink in porcelain, square and tall, and the shower takes up half of the place, the toilet, also porcelain, but with a fluffy black lid, seeming to hide behind the sink in sheer awe of the shower. Everything smells like men's cologne, cleaning products and steam.

She sits on the fluffy black toilet lid and he speaks up from behind the dark green shower curtain, not at all surprised that she has come again so quickly.

"You didn't do it, did you?"

"I tried," she answered, honest and annoyed that she is so direct in this issue, "But, then I got to the bar and realized, to my dismay, that I'm the President. I can't have sex with random people and not expect it to get out in the media and those vultures picking on me for months. And now it's affecting my work."

"How so?"

"I keep…I don't know. Falling in and out of time. I start thinking about some random stuff and then all of a sudden, a half hour or more has passed and I find myself stealing video tapes of meetings with very important people so I don't find that I've started a war."

In her explanation, she is making little motions with her hands and his own are raised above the curtain rod. Soap is in one hand and she notices it going up and down and can just guess what he's doing. The sight intrigues her as he answers back without pausing his actions, multi-tasking.

"Intriguing dilemma, but with an easy enough solution."

"And what is that?"

She hears the smirk in his voice, not needing to see it on his face, "Invite a friend over to your Presidential Suite and have sex there. Plenty of security and easy enough to keep a secret."

"All of my friends are married."

"…So?"

She seems to choke on air for a second and then responds quickly and with a voice chortled in humiliation, "So, I'm not going to end a marriage for my own pleasure. I'm not going to be an evil, dirty mistress!"

"If you're not going to take my advice, you could always get hardware."

No thought came with her next action. Just emotion and movement and the shoe in one of the corners being picked up in her little hand, being thrown and then hitting the curtain and followed by a surprised noise by Londo. She hit him in the stomach, and the boot landed on the inside of the shower, just next to his foot.

In the action, the curtain was drawn back, just enough for her to see his hands touch the wall and brace himself a little against the slight pain she has caused. When he bends down to pick up the shoe, they make eye contact and he narrows his eyes at her, looking just a little striking. In a Zeus-descending-from-Olympus sort of way. With chagrin.

He fills the boot with water and she doesn't move when he tosses the thing out through the opening in the curtain, splashing her hair and causing one of the white buns to come loose and let out the black locks trapped inside for the past thirteen hours, ruffled and wet and she laughs, just a little, but true to the laugh itself.

Londo closed the curtain again, but called over through the barrier, not so angry, "You don't need to assault me when I'm joking."

"That was joking?" Winema laughed again, letting the other bun out to make the look balanced.

"Alright, sarcasm," he admits and she can hear some water splash upwards as though he were cupping it with his hands and trapping it before letting it go.

Her hands tread through the tangles in her hair for a moment. There is an image in her head, the one that's been stuck there for the last two days, during her moments in time when she should be thinking of something else, but she can't because it's just so important to her and she can't help but think it should be important to him. She wants to tell it to him, but is a little afraid of what could come after and she puts out a careful selection of words as she speaks again.

"And, aside from the sex thing, there has been something else going on."

"What's that?"

She bites her lip, but answers, "Could I persuade you into not doing anything about it if I tell you?"

The water fills in the silence for a moment. Like a stream filling a fishbowl as time fills a portion of a clock in numbers and springs. She knows that he knows what is to come next, but she wants to talk so badly that she'll wait until he answers correctly.

He finally speaks again, still a careful balance of himself and this person she's getting to know that's hidden behind a shower curtain, "You can. What's going on that has you so distracted?"

Winema rests her head on her hands on her knees and talks, half wistful and half worried, "My daughter brought your son to one of the charity parties I made her come to. He spent the entire time near her, warding off other boys that neither she nor I have been able to like. They're not dating, though. I just thought you might want to know."

Words want to fill his mouth and be set free, but he pushes them down and simply turns off the water. It strains in the pipes with hisses and grinds and is the perfect end to this…whatever this was. He speaks again, cold again. Unfeeling again. But doesn't feel so much like that in spirit.

"I have to get dressed now. Could you come back another time?"

She knows he can't see it, but she nods her head, leaves a cred card on the porcelain sink and says one more thing before leaving.

"Yes. Soon."


	4. Black Coffee and Strawberry Cookies

Disclaimer: I don't own Legion. I will never own Legion.

**

* * *

**

Black Coffee & Strawberry Cookies-:-

There is no real reason for him to be in New Metropolis. No reason, other than the food he needs to buy that is insanely cheap for the one of the main technological capitals of the universe. That was the only reason he was there. Smelling oranges from the bodega and adding one at a time to the bag in his other hand.

He is not wearing his usual attire; he's in a deep grey long coat—like a trench coat, but newer and less itchy—and to an untrained eye looks like a lawyer or a normal, good person-type of doctor on his lunch break. Smelling oranges.

Lord, he kept thinking someone was going to come by and just jump him for no reason any sane person could imagine, but existed so easily in his mind that it became a dreadful, paranoid part of himself. It felt in its own way kind of like a shadow on the horizon of his comfortable life that he had manufactured for himself. Not comfortable at all.

The orange he had been smelling for the last two minutes was added to his bag, the fourth one to be plucked up from its station in the square box filled with its little relatives and brethren of dark orange and light orange tropic fruit. He has been standing in the same spot for over twenty-five minutes and had not even started looking over the melons, apples, apricots, those fuzzy-clustered up-sort of cherry-looking things and edible roses he ate to keep his shapely figure. From the side of his peripheral vision he could see the bodega owner and noted that the stout little thing looked a little freaked out.

On the bright side of this very out of character trip, travelling this far from Rawl, Londo finally had the opportunity to spend the credits earned by listening, and contributing in an odd little way, to Winema Wazzo's problems. Two sessions and enough credits to pay for his groceries for the next three weeks had left him feeling…different when he woke up that morning. Like the lab, his wonderful lab with all of his scientific toys and explosive devices, was a suffocating cage. He just grabbed clean clothes from the very back of his closet (wrapped in plastic, from some time period when he still cared enough to take care of his clothes,) put them on, grabbed the credit the black haired banshee had left on his coffee table a little while ago and made for New Metropolis.

Getting annoyed by the looks the bodega owner was still throwing his way, he paid for the oranges and made for the caffeine shop he had passed by while walking down the hill. It had been a long time since he'd been to New Metropolis, but he was glad to see that this particular little shop was still in business. He knew it well from when he was younger and Brin was still in his life.

That thought caused him a misstep and he almost tripped and landed on his face, but he caught himself just enough for one knee to lock up and make him simply stumble twice, the bag of oranges falling from his hand and just sort of group into a herd and settle in the gutter.

"…the hell was that?" Londo muttered to himself.

Shaking his head a little, the man bent his knee experimentally and then bent over entirely to pick up the oranges. Some of them were smeared from mud that was a result from three nights of rainfall and the wet dirt clung to his pores and the little nicks and cuts that he often overlooked from his time in the lab. It stung, like his thoughts of his son that were growing in number since the President popped into his life. It was similar to what happened when one starts smoking cigarettes, really. The sensations are new, sometimes awful and sometimes wonderful when mixed with some emotion or physical activity or coffee, but there is still the inevitable fate of having one's wardrobe smell like smoke.

A little crick made through his back as he stood up again and he was met with the sight of the caffeine shop. The prospect—and smell—of freshly made coffee and coffee products takes his mind off of his son for the moment and he strides up to it, bag in his hand a little crinkled, but still holding in there as he stepped through the door.

The building itself is all white that is slightly faded from age, the actual name of the shop run down so much that the only thing legible from the name of the place is an 'M' that stands out in a bright green that might have been blue once and to this day he still doesn't know the real name of the establishment. Stepping in, the door knocks into a bell hanging on a hook above the doorframe that is missing the little metal piece in its mouth. It still makes a little jingle noise, though and he smiles just for a moment and takes his place in the front to look over the menu placed behind the register counter.

He looks at the horrible writing of the menus, but knows that it's really not needed since that writing has been there since what feels like the dawn of time and he knows that the only thing he'll end up buying is a special mix latte and maybe a muffin or something small and chewy like that…

"Um, excuse me, but it's your turn in line," a little feminine voice speaks up from behind him and he snaps out of reading the awful print to turn his head and be met with a set of doe eyes that are equal, if not completely alike, to the ones he's been forced to look at for near two weeks. Only, these eyes register some fear after a second and he actually realizes he's seen the eyes and the face and the figure of the young woman before him. And then a sort of smirk slithers to his lips and he wishes it was the President instead.

"Thank you, Miss Wazzo," he says, earning himself an angry frown and his own self-gratification because she acts so like Winema that this might just end with him walking away unharmed and her either really annoyed or pissed looking instead of him getting tossed around by her own little form out of her costume and in simple black pants, boots and white turtleneck. He would much prefer the former.

He steps up in line though, and she takes one huge step forward, ready for a fight just by looking at him, "What the…" the word sprock catches in her throat and is replaced very quickly, "Fuck are you doing here?"

"Why, I'm getting a hot drink, a treat and groceries around the city, as you can see," he said, holding up his bag and shaking it just under her chin so she can see inside while he orders his blended latte, a hearty chocolate muffin, an entire wrapped carrier box of mixed donuts and a tin box of chocolate caramel popcorn that he still had no idea why the manager thought to sell in a caffeine shop, but seemed to sell anyway, despite the odds of it actually being sold in bulk.

Tinya swatted at the offending bag as he paid the fee and took his place at the front of his line, ordering herself a peppermint cappuccino and a straight up black coffee with strawberry cookies that, Londo could guess, were not for her, paid and waited beside the scientist while continuing to talk—or rather—question him.

"You'd better not be here for Brin again or I swear to God—You are here for him, aren't you? You sick, sociopathic, puny little—"

He can't help but find himself laughing a little before he can stop it and as his order comes up, he has to stifle himself before she shoves one of those boots up his ass. He can't help it, though. She has the same damn voice and even the same mannerisms of the Madame President that it's impossible not to find it rather comical. She even popped into his personal space like the woman.

"No, my dear," he says after allowing her to get her own things and follow him outside like a little angry kitten that's gotten its tail stepped on, her little cookie sack swinging in her hand and her coffees clutched in her hands like a choke-hold, "I'm just here for shopping. Nothing to do with…"

He pauses in his steps and he looks over at her, eyes suddenly quite wide in realization and looking at the cookies and the black coffee cup in her hand like they're some kind of omens delivered by fate. She pauses in her steps as well and looks at him, confused.

"…Brin?" Tinya finished the sentence for him, some of her wrath put away for now at the look on his face. It's different than the time she saw him when Timber Wolf was chased by the Legion. More human in a way that made her step a little closer when he shuffled his food in his arms.

"Mm? No! No, just here for shopping. Um," Londo says, spinning on his heal a bit, "Which way do I go to avoid running into any of your Legion? I won't bother Brin, I…I have too much to do. I won't bother him."

Tinya doesn't look like she really believes him, but points up the street while she leaves for the Legion headquarters. She gives him one last look with those doe eyes, though and he marches up the hill and by the bodega.

He wonders on the way back to his ship why he bought donuts. He generally doesn't eat the things.


	5. Copper Pans

Disclaimer: I don't own Legion. I make no money from writing this work of fiction.

* * *

**Copper Pans-:-**

There are bags filled to the brim with food sitting in the kitchen like guardians of cooking and Winema found herself weeding through them and then organizing them into their proper places in the cupboards or fridge respectively as Londo actually cleaned his living room.

The man is actually panicking, but Winema doesn't comment on it and lets him continue mopping the tiles that spanned the entire property with a sort of frenzy. He has this look on his face that screams Panic Attack, and she can't help but watch it play out as she tries to open one particular packet of food; chicken and turkey. If he's like this, like a person who cares, he'll need food and Winema can cook and talk when he's ready, at the same time.

His grey head looks her way, finally, when he hears the clang of his pans—the ones he hasn't used in forever since he was more the instant gratification type who used microwave dinners when hungry—and he seems to realize exactly what he had been doing for the last four hours since he'd woken up that morning. Just a day after running into the smaller Wazzo woman… Feeling something other than the need to look for more things to experiment on in the jungle.

When she notices him register her having come in, she holds up two of the pans from the cupboards, "Which one of these is better suited to cook meat?"

He blinks. The question takes a second to process, but he then he points to the copper colored one, his hands still gripping the mop so hard that his knuckles are white.

She puts the other pan back where it came from, balanced precariously atop crystal goblets and wooden serving bowls meant for salads and once and a while even pasta dishes, and turned on the stove. She let the pan start to heat up as she washed her hands in the sink that faced the kitchen, the flow of the water very powerful, almost in an uncomfortable way, and looked pointedly at Londo so he would either go back to making his home more presentable or talk to her. She really wanted to know what was going on that had him so out of it.

He acknowledges the look and does something she had never thought he really would do. He starts talking, but also continues with the cleaning, too far into it to stop just yet, not with only the bathroom, operating room, kitchen and half of his bedroom done. He had to finish the living/computer/chemical room. But words could fall while he did that.

"I ran into your daughter the other day," he starts, just a little hesitant.

She turns off the water at this and gives him a little smile that he doesn't see but can sense when she turns to the meat, grabbing a small knife from a block of wood holding at least a dozen of its shiny copies on the other side of the counter. His words come again, punctuated in a way by the knife slicing through the meat and making them small enough that they measured just a bit smaller than Winema's pinky finger.

"She just happened to be in my favorite caffeine shop when…Brin and I used to visit New Metropolis. I was shopping for the food you see there and just happened upon the place. She told me I was next in line and…"

"…And?" Winema coaxed, leaving the meat for a moment to see if he had any butter in with the other goodies. Going into the second bag she found a whole tub of margarine and even some seasoning she might use later. It wasn't as though she couldn't guess what had happened, she knew her daughter enough to _know_ what most likely happened. She just wanted confirmation.

He finds himself letting up on the pressure of the mop and tries not to smile while finishing, "She got this pissed off, angry as hell look and asked me, and I quote, "What the fuck are you doing here?" in this completely teenage way. She looked like she even would have tackled me and kicked my ass if other people weren't around."

Winema did laugh at this, bending a little at the waist even as she plopped a spoonful of butter into the pan. The yellow stuff melted and turned into a circular puddle as she turned and grabbed all of the meat and even the seasoning. She dropped the meat into the butter and let it sizzle for a second before adding the seasoning, just a little.

"And then on the way out she asked if I was there for Brin," he continued, "She was so protective. She's too short to do that by the way."

"She isn't that short."

"She barely comes up to my chest, Winema, she's too short to be so overprotective of my son. It is like having a kitten protect an Alaskan wolf. That's not only weird, it's humiliating."

She acknowledges that he's actually using her name, but doesn't say anything about it. She's afraid he'll break off speaking about this entirely and she won't find out why he's acting so differently.

"And then when she followed me outside, I actually noticed why she was there…"

"Oh? And what was that?"

He sighs, placing the mop in the water bucket and crossing over to sit on one of the chairs surrounding the kitchen counter. He looks worn out and she thinks that the real world has come slamming into him and whatever her daughter did must have hit him harder than a wrecking ball to make him feel something other than his pride at his work.

"She was picking up food and coffee for my son."

"Was he there?"

"No."

"Then how do you know that it was for him?"

He gives her a little glare, holding up his hand and then started ticking off reasons on his fingers, "She ordered for herself a peppermint drink, which she swung around and didn't seem to notice was dripping a little, but she also ordered those disgusting strawberry cookies with black coffee that she paid close attention to make sure that she not only didn't spill a drop, but also made sure the cookies didn't break in half. She ordered them like she had done it before. They were for Brin."

"That's nice."

"No, that's not nice," he argues, getting this look on his face that makes Winema smile a little more, "That is terrifying. Even more so than her kicking my ass."

"Do I detect some parental concern?"

"No!" Londo snarled, getting up from his spot to dig in the fridge where he saw her put away the beverages. He didn't even think about how he was supposed to listen to her bitch and moan at these times; it just seemed natural to talk like this around her. At least for now.

His voice echoed within the confines of the cooling machine, but she could make it out, even as he moved around the drinks he had bought and she had organized, looking for something specific, "I'm not concerned. Brin can take care of himself. He's almost an adult, he can do as he likes."

When he shuts the door to the fridge, he comes out with a bottle of cheap, white wine and goes for the drawer just next to Winema's hip that has the corkscrew in its confines, one hand just slightly pressing her the other way and then pulling out the device. She doesn't say anything, but allows him to muddle in his scattered thoughts and readies herself in case the cork comes flying out of the bottle. She's been hit by far too many of those and they hurt for hours if they hit the wrong body part.

She loosens her stance a little when the cork comes out easily and goes back to turn the meat. Londo grabs two champagne glasses from the cupboard and pours the wine into both. The one for himself is filled close to spilling out of the glass and the one he pours for her only reaches to the middle.

"So why are you freaking out on your tiled floors?" she prods, accepting the glass and taking a little sip. Wine, cheap or expensive, has always tasted the same to her and she still can't get drunk off of it. A perfect alcoholic beverage to have around a (now slightly less) mad scientist.

The wine vanishes, or at least half of it vanishes, down his throat, and he kind of just stares at the black haired woman before him a moment. His next words are careful, but deliberate and he's sure that he sounds like a jackass.

"I…I don't know. It just sort of hit me this morning that you were right. My son is on the cusp of dating someone for the first time and I find myself realizing I…I don't know anything about him now. He has a life I know nothing about. I want to know about him, but I don't know how."

"Ah, it is parental concern. But I can answer that question if you'd like," Winema said, turning off the stove to turn to the cupboards and grab a plate for each of them, one red glass for him and one a beige wood for her. She is deliberate and careful as she levels the pan above the plates and pours the meat, half and half, onto their plates and he assists her, unconsciously, by bringing out a fork for the each of them. He wonders for an instant why his forks are the tiny kind generally used for eating really expensive pie, but then shakes his head and starts in on his helping.

A fantastically good feeling settles into him like nesting as the food enters his mouth and he shuts his eyes in pleasure. Lord, he hasn't tasted home-made food in so long that this pathetic little meal, one piece of turkey or chicken in ten charred from sitting for too long, tastes like a meal from a five star professional chef and he enjoys it for another moment before swallowing and motioning her to answer his dilemma.

"You could actually dial the vid-phone and talk to him," Winema starts, turning back around to the fridge and pulling out the salad dressing and then turned back to him, covering half of her meat in the dressing, like an avalanche of snow over a rocky, dark desert, "Or you could ask someone who's actually met him. Like me."

He takes off his glasses, setting them on the other end of the counter, but doesn't look up at her, choosing to stare at what she had done to her share of the food. He, himself, couldn't stand ranch on anything other than salad or the roses he ate sometimes, and Brin hadn't liked the stuff at all. It made him curious about something other than their current conversation.

She notices the look and with no embarrassment or even hesitation, squirts just a little of the dressing onto the side of his plate, offing him something else as well, "I could at least tell you something small about him, if you'd like."

He pauses, it seems his whole body goes stiff even, for a moment of contemplation, but the result is the same whether he had paused or not. The answer is simple and some part inside of him opens up a part of his mind that he wasn't aware that he had.

"Tell me."

"Well, he bakes. It seems when I went into the Legion HQ he implied that he had done a lot of baking before and he thought the friend of his I asked to take me to him wanted some of the cookies he had in the oven at the time. Is that something?"

Londo's eyes had widened in her recounting of visiting his son in his new home and nothing comes to mind to answer her question as he chewed on the meat with the ranch.


	6. Out of the Closet

Eheh, sorry that I haven't up-dated this in a while, but there is only so much that comes to mind when you're trying to write the character of Mar Londo. But, at the least, I am trying, seeing as **kaithelonechampion** insisted on an up-date.

* * *

**Out of the Closet-:-**

"Oh my holiest of holy Sprocks…"

Looking up from the bag of home remedies for hang-overs she had been gathering all morning throughout her presidential suite, one of her hands adjusting her new bra and the strap that had been rubbing her raw since she'd gotten back late last night and woke up to it grinding into her skin, Winema found standing in her doorway her daughter. Her daughter in something more colorful than her Legion outfit—brown business suit pants and a tan, ruffled long sleeve shirt that looked fitting for an ancient Earth pirate—with her mouth hanging open at her obviously slightly hung over mother that was only wearing black pants and no shirt (as per the readjusting of the bra).

"Tinya, pumpkin," Winema chirped pleasantly, hand finally fixing the strap of the bra and allowing it to move for the counter where her blue Cardigan was sitting adjacent to the remedies, "What ever brings you here today?"

"Are you hung over?" Tinya questioned, slowly walking in and making sure that the door was indeed locked.

"Tiny bit," Winema winked, bringing her hand up and parting her fingers less than a centimeter, "But it's nothing I haven't had before."

Tinya stopped next to the bag, looking over the rim and losing her focus on her mother enough to not watch her pull on the Cardigan as well as glare a little at the bag's contents. What was inside kinda worried her, but considering why she was there to talk to the President—her mother; if the universe could be that horrible—it wouldn't surprise her if it had something to do with the chip she was carrying around on her shoulder for a while now.

"If the hangover is no big deal, than why is all this stuff here?"

Walking over to her closet, Winema looked completely calm as she answered over her shoulder, looking for shoes that wouldn't kill her spine, "I'm going to see my shrink today. He and I had drinks and dinner last night and I have this vague sentiment to go over to his place of business, stuff this stuff down his throat and natter into his ear to increase his headache and his most dire wish—if I'm correct on his condition, he did drink an awful lot more than I did—to let his head fall off his shoulders and explode."

Tinya looked at her mother in exasperation, before drawing in a deep breath and crossing her arms, "Mother, your shrink wouldn't happen to be that nutjob Dr. Londo, would it?"

"Oh, so he wasn't lying when he said he ran into you," the tall woman grinned, slipping on a pair of flats that were very comfortable.

Forgetting herself for a moment—really, why did Tinya even fathom that her mother would say no when that was just the sort of person she was—a righteous anger of the most glorious kind, Tinya brought her hands up to her eyes and smushed her palms into the grooves of her sockets, the tips of her fingers digging into her eyebrows rather painfully and a bellow of agony escaping her lips like that of a dying wildebeest being shredded into parts by a pack of hyenas. Her mother just sort of rotated on her heels and nodded in approval to herself.

* * *

Winema yawned as her ship parked down in front of Londo's compound, the sleek woman glad to be out of the blackness of space and even happier that her daughter's tirade that had been going on since they entered the ship was winding down to a crawl that mostly consisted of "Oh, Sprock, what could you have been thinking, blah, blah, blah…" and Tinya pounding her head into a wall every so often, muttering "Brin is going to hate me…never going to talk to me again…sob, sob, sob…"

The President had gone off with her daughter alone, and thus, when the both of them disembarked onto the ground of the planet, Winema was happy to lock the ship herself with the little clicker she'd been waiting an age to actually get to use. With Tinya stepping out beside her, Winema turned to face the ship, pressed the little button on her keychain (the one Tinya had gotten her for some holiday she couldn't recall, the shape of a four leaf configured plant on earth) and the light in the button made a cute little chirp, signaling that the ship was locked right and tight and also, happily, made Tinya snap out of it and check out her surroundings.

Winema would have to make a note of just how displeased Tinya was when realizing they were standing in the doorway of the mad scientist she and most of the Legion hated on behalf of Brin Londo. Maybe the President would even remember to buy earplugs to block out the disembodied shriek that escaped her daughter's lips at seeing that Winema had a key (made through deception, seeing as Londo still really wasn't aware she had it) that opened the door and they were in at the motion of two steps of beautifully shoed feet. It was most unpleasant.

"Mother!" Tinya whispered at Winema closing the door once inside the—surprise of surprises—clean compound with little in disarray other than a couple shattered bottles of not-so-premium beer on the floor, sloppily swept into a pile with a broom laid out on the floor pathetically, "We cannot be here! This man is crazy, you saw what he did to his own son; imagine what he could do to you!"

"Oh don't be silly, dear," Winema smiled, gripping the handle of her bag of remedies tight just before she swaggered over to the kitchen counter and set it upon the surface, all items in the bag making a hardy 'thud' as result, "I pay him a fee and he'd rather avoid what I have for blackmail. Plus, when he's a little freaked out at my mere presence, he's really not…horrible."

The air positively wreaked of cooked chicken as well as a permeating presence of the alcohol staining the floor, and Tinya most certainly would have said something on the matter of mental presence and bodily mutilation inflicted on her mother, except, she was interrupted by the much taller ebony haired person without a Y chromosome picking up a pair of pans from the cupboards. Tinya was about to say something about not cooking for psychopaths, but Winema didn't put them on the stove; she raised them above her head and smashed them together, making a most hideous sound that echoed through the entire place worse than a thunderclap.

The result was an agonized cry, followed by a light thud just thirty feet away in the living area. The thud caused Tinya to squeak, before Winema did it again, with a similar result, sans any sort of noise that would follow someone falling from some low place. The cry was louder this time, though and Winema grinned malevolently, setting the pans back.

"So that's where he is," the President continued to smile, Tinya remaining where she was in the kitchen with her hands over her heart, "I would have assumed the bedroom, or the bathroom with his head in the toilet."

Stopping beside what Tinya would guess to have once been robot parts scattered around and dissected, Winema's smile grew a little more as she bent over someone Tinya really didn't need to see's bare feet with the rest of the body inside the robot's midsection like a tapeworm the size of one of the Shavis that continued to thrive even after Krypton exploded, her hands against her knees as she leaned down, "Hello, Mar. And how are we doing this morning?"

There was a vague muttering, followed by a thud from inside the robot parts, that was followed by belly-aching curses, directed at all of creation rather than just Winema, "…Get out damn woman, get out…or I'll throw up all over you…or something…"

Winema directed her smile over at her daughter before bending down to grasp the ankles of the man that was her shrink and one of Tinya's enemies, looking like she cared not a whit about any threat of body fluids massing to decorate herself, "Now, don't be like that. I've brought anti-hangover medications and remedies. Oh, and my daughter."

"You're wha—ow!"

It seemed that he'd tried to bring himself into a sitting up position and hit his head as Winema pulled most of his form out into the open; Mar Londo's whole frame coming to light in little more than his boxers and an undershirt that was much too proper for an ego of his size, rolling in on himself along with clutching his face as the President dragged him over to his disheveled sofa with the pillows strewn over the floor haphazardly.

Tinya wasn't really sure whether to laugh or cry at the spectacle.

So rather than just pop out of the place in phantom mode like she so very desperately wanted to once Winema placed the crabby psycho on his sofa, she instead moved to remove the remedies from their bag and bit the inside of her lips, trying to drown out anything and everything the adults in the room spoke about until either really acknowledged her again.

Which, if she was only too lucky, would be quite a while as Winema started fussing over the grey haired man that kept trying to (unsuccessfully) slap the woman away like a rather sturdy gnat buzzing too close to him for any kind of comfort.


End file.
